


I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

by MaskoftheRay



Series: Merry Angstmas 🎄 [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: ANGSTY holiday fic, Angst, Bruce Wayne Has Feelings, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Bruce wears a Santa suit in this one, Christmas Party, Damian Wayne Has a Heart, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Holidays, Hurt No Comfort, Lovers To Enemies, Other, Overprotective Damian Wayne, POV Multiple, So you know what you're getting, Song fic- kind of, The plot of this is basically like the song, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Well Christmas Gala anyway, holiday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21803719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: It’s the night of the Wayne Manor Christmas Charity gala, and Damian is supposed to be in bed. But he isn’t, because he can’t sleep with all the people in the manor, and so he sees something he shouldn’t— that his mother, Talia, has decided to make an appearance at the manor. And she wants to talk to Bruce.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Clark Kent (mentioned), Bruce Wayne & Ra's al Ghul (mentioned), Bruce Wayne & the Batfam, Damian Wayne & Bruce Wayne, Damian Wayne & Talia al Ghul, Past Talia al Ghul/Bruce Wayne - Relationship, Talia al Ghul & Bruce Wayne
Series: Merry Angstmas 🎄 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571173
Comments: 4
Kudos: 90





	I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

**Author's Note:**

> “Oh, what a laugh it would have been  
> If Daddy had only seen  
> Mommy kissing Santa Claus last night”  
> —“I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,” Thomas Patrick Connor, The Jackson Five

It was the night of the 36th annual Wayne Manor Christmas Charity gala, and the 33rd year in a row that the event had been hosted at the ancestral home of the Wayne family; only the years of 1983, 1993, and 1994 had seen a change of venue. There were well over 200 guests in attendance (some personally invited by the host family, others invited by long-standing arrangement, or through social pull), and as the night continued, more trickled onto the property. Alfred had a time of keeping the hired help organized.

Wayne manor was a sight to see regardless of the time of year, but this was especially the case around the holidays, even more so when there was an event on. The whole exterior of the building was decorated, and lit up with classy white lights and wreathes. This year, there was an addition of two near-identical snowmen, which stood at attention by the front door, one on each side— courtesy of the youngest Wayne children: Damian and Tim. The inside of the manor was nothing to scoff at either.

Inside, Wayne Manor was covered in tidings of the season: festive nutcrackers, wreaths, mistletoe, holiday boughs, and even trees stood like soldiers throughout the many rooms. Additionally, there were other festive touches— like the stockings for the children (even the grown ones) and the main Wayne family Christmas tree, which was a monument in and of itself (Clark had actually had to help bring it in) as it stood at almost ten feet tall.

If the setting weren’t festive enough, then guests of the gala could be assured that the _atmosphere_ was. There was eggnog (both alcoholic and otherwise), cookies, and candy canes a plenty. Christmas tunes floated softly through the air, thanks to the manor’s sound system, and a local choir had been hired to carol throughout the evening. Additionally, Bruce Wayne himself had decided to dress festively for the gala— rumor had it that his outfit was inspired by his ten-year-old son, as this was only his second Christmas at the manor. Whatever had inspired him, Bruce Wayne had certainly gone all-out.

He wore a full-on Santa suit, and looked the part down to the last detail, including a fake paunch, long, white beard, and black boots. His cheeks were rosy too, as he’d been indulging in eggnog all evening. As the night wore on, Bruce’s Santa suit didn’t fare so well, and he soon lost both the paunch and the beard; he still made for an intriguing Santa, though he was perhaps a bit more _dashing_ than was fit for such a jolly, friendly, and fatherly figure as Saint Nick.

It was nearing midnight when the last car pulled up the long, dark private road and stopped in the softly-lit driveway. Out of it stepped a lithe woman, in a poinsettia-red silk dress, with a knee-high slit, black stiletto heels, and an evergreen-green shawl. She carried a small, precisely wrapped present— red and white striped— with a silver bow on top, and a thin envelope in her other hand. Her dark brown hair was loose, and fell in silky waves past her shoulders to her midback. As she stepped from the car, her driver— a tall, burly man who may have doubled as a security guard on another night— shut her door with a slight bow. “That is all, Ubu. You may wait here, this should not take long,” the woman said coolly.

“Yes, Mistress,” the driver replied. After watching her slip away, he slid back inside the car.

■ ¤ ■ ¤ ■ ¤ ■

Damian was supposed to be in bed. It had just turned 12:30 a.m. and Father had strictly forbidden him from being up past 11. Of course, with so many strangers in the manor, there was no possible way Damian could sleep— what if there was an assassination attempt, or something equally as dire? What if one of the many harlots at the gala got their hooks in Father, or, even more dreadful, lured him under the _mistletoe_? So Damian had snuck back out of bed, minding not to run into any of his brothers, or Kent, who was also in attendance, and supposed to be ‘covering’ the event for his workplace, _The Daily Planet_. But, with so many people, and with so much _noise_ , Damian’s task was made easier. Oh, he still had to duck under one of the hors d’oeuvre tables, or slip behind a passing waiter, but for the son of Batman, daughter of Talia al Ghul, and grandson of Ra’s al Ghul, it was _simple_.

Currently, he was within eyesight of Father, who’d planted himself in the North Study. Damian was perched between one of those abysmal trees that Pennyworth and Father had insisted on bringing into the manor for tonight’s gala, and an overlarge armchair that he was rather fond of. They’d promised to get rid of the trees within two days— each tree would be donated, fully decorated, to local orphanages, hospitals, and old peoples’ homes— but as of now, he, grudgingly, conceded that they were useful. As yet another young, under-dressed woman accosted Father, and pushed him nearer to the doorway, and its mistletoe, Damian sighed under his breath.

This one, however, got farther than most. That is, until Bruce laughed loudly at something another of his companions said, and in the process, managed to remove the latest harlot’s hand without looking like he was doing so. The process continued tediously for another half hour, and Damian found himself growing bored. That is, until a waiter came by with refreshments, and an awfully familiar form slipped into the room behind the staff member. She made sure to reach for the same glass as Bruce, at the same time.

Father and son had nearly the same reaction, from different spots in the room.

As Father’s back was to Damian, all he saw was the subtle shift of Father’s shoulders, as he angled himself towards Mother. Father’s words were inaudible from Damian’s hiding spot, but that didn’t matter to the boy, as he could well imagine the kind of… _conversation_ that was going on between them. “You’ll have to ex’cus me,” Bruce slurred loudly, as his hand slid away from the glass that Talia still grasped. “Have to… mix an’ mingle.” The two or three people who _cared_ nodded, and Bruce and Talia slipped away hardly noticed. Neither Kent nor Grayson were in the room, and so Damian had no choice but to follow his parents at a discreet distance, heart pounding the entire time.

They made their way through the manor’s halls gracefully, as Bruce Wayne was not as drunk as his guests perhaps thought him to be. The youngest Wayne followed in their wake. Surprisingly— or not so— he went unnoticed. This continued until the two (three) had reached the locked door to Bruce’s study. Casually, as if he were continuing a conversation, Bruce leaned against the door and fiddled with the handle. When the last guest had passed, Bruce twisted the handle and shoved. The lock gave way with a small groan and both adults swept into the study. Damian hesitated just outside and peered breathlessly through the keyhole.

■ ¤ ■ ¤ ■ ¤ ■

For once, Bruce found himself almost enjoying the Christmas charity gala. Oh, sure, it was still work, and he’d had to lay on the ‘Brucie Wayne’ act extra thick for the event, but his whole family (even Jason) had made an appearance at some point during the night, and Clark and Dick were covering patrol. More importantly, he’d had the opportunity to show his youngest son what the manor looked like when it was decorated, because of the gala. While Bruce didn’t particularly care for the holidays, and never had, he _did_ have fond memories of galas past, when his parents had hosted. He wanted his son to have the same— or, if not the _same_ , then at least one night of frivolity, one night where the weight of expectations (both his own and Bruce’s) did not rest so heavily on Damian’s young shoulders.

With Superman and Nightwing watching Gotham, and Tim at the manor (possibly Jason too, still, he could almost always be persuaded by the lure of _free food_ ), Bruce even felt secure enough to indulge a little. He’d always had a sweet tooth, and Alfred’s homemade eggnog— both versions— was not to be missed. He would have later called the event successful, perhaps _very_ successful, even, if it were not for the appearance of one particular party-crasher.

Bruce had retired to the North Study, which was far quieter than the rest of the manor, at that point. True, he’d been flanked by a few of the braver models— one in particular kept trying to tug him under the mistletoe which hung over the study’s doorway— but it was better than the crowd and noise that filled the rest of the manor’s rooms and halls. He had been attempting to disengage the model, Jessica, or Julia— something like that— when Talia had appeared. Later, Bruce would kick himself for not considering that she would try to make an appearance, but in that moment, he’d only gone stiff and cold, feeling very unprepared in his tired Santa suit, and half-drunk.

Talia’s familiar hand had felt slightly cool, smooth, and like if fit _too goddamned well_ in his own as they’d reached for a glass of spiked eggnog at the same time. Bruce had _not_ startled, though he’d wanted to, at the sudden, almost ghost-like appearance of his ex. _Rather like Dicken’s A Christmas Carol_ , he couldn’t stop himself from thinking, as he took in Talia’s… festive form. A few seconds later, and their hands were still clasped around the same glass. He carefully disengaged, and Talia slid the eggnog from the waiter’s tray. She took a small sip, keeping eye contact the entire time.

“What are you doing here?” Bruce asked stiffly, all traces of merriness, and drunkenness, gone.

Talia sighed, and looked down demurely at the floor. Not that it fooled Bruce. _Though it **had** , once_, he couldn’t help but think, with a pang. His silence must have been telling, because Talia raised her bold green gaze— so similar to _someone else’s_ — and took another sip of her drink. She set it on the nearby coffee table, and allowed her eyes to rove over Bruce’s form. Despite the heat of the suit, and the additional heat from all the manor’s guests, he felt like shivering. “You are looking festive, beloved.”

Bruce frowned, for a moment, then neutralized the expression. If given an inch of emotionality, Talia would spin a yard from it, and use that yard to either strangle or to wrap a person so thoroughly in her web that they would suffocate willingly. Bruce was not too proud to not admit that this woman had done both to him. He only wondered which it would be now. “Why are you here, Talia?” he asked again, coolly.

Talia’s gaze narrowed for a millisecond, and she flicked an errant strand of hair from her shoulder— she was annoyed, then. _Good_. “I am here,” she finally answered, “to bring a gift to my son.” She stopped speaking abruptly, as if expecting Bruce to somehow materialize their child in that moment. As if she could ask _the world_ of him, and get it, without lifting a finger. Bruce’s eyes flashed, and his mouth formed a grimace without his permission, as his heart squeezed a little harder at the thought that he’d once upon a time _wanted_ to give the world to the daughter of Ra’s al Ghul. But those were different times.

“Well, I’ll make sure to give it to him, later. He’s in bed.”

Talia’s eyes flashed, and her lips went razor thin. Despite himself, Bruce tensed further. She opened her mouth, but a particularly loud laugh from one of Bruce’s board members stayed Talia’s sharp tongue. “May we continue this conversation elsewhere?” she asked smoothly.

Bruce sighed. “Will you leave afterwards?”

“Yes. If that is what you wish.” Bruce met her gaze, and in it he saw only sincerity. Not that he’d ever been _good_ at reading Talia’s gazes, not really. But here, tonight, it would have to be enough. He felt almost nauseous at that.

“Fine.” Bruce turned slightly, and let ‘Brucie Wayne’ roll loosely from his tongue. Then, when his excuses had settled, Bruce turned again, and gestured slightly to the study door. Talia gave him a slim, dangerous smile, and glided across the carpet and out into the hall. Despite himself, despite all the scars and wounds and knowledge that this woman was nothing but _poison_ , Bruce still found himself admiring Talia’s body beneath her red, silk dress. He hated himself even as he made the conscious decision to blame the alcohol.

Once in the hall, Talia paused by the long decorative table and picked up a card and a small, wrapped box. “Lead the way, beloved,” she said, after a moment. Bruce blinked, and realized he’d been staring at the box. He chastised himself mentally, and quickly ran through a list of places that he would feel safest in if this went badly. He chose his personal study (and office) for its proximity to the cave. Without a word, he spun— though this left his back wide open to Talia— and marched through the manor, doing his best to avoid the drunken revelers and decorations.

They reached the study, and Bruce had a moment of embarrassment as he found the door locked. _Right. He’d locked it himself earlier_. He repressed a sigh, and waited until the giggly, drunk couple passed them by. Then Bruce forced open the door and swept into the room. Talia, silently and unperturbedly, followed. He shut the door after her.

The room was silent for a few tense moments, before Bruce sighed, and ran a hand down his face. He was too tired to keep up appearances, even— especially— in front of this woman. This woman, the mother of his child, this woman, the daughter of one of his archnemeses. This woman, whom he had once loved with all the passion still available in Bruce Wayne’s damaged, damaged heart. “Alright, talk,” he commanded finally.

“Very well,” Talia said softly. She took one step forward, and only stopped when Bruce tensed, and gave her a sharp warning look. Talia smirked softly, and paused. “As I said, I come bearing… holiday tidings. I have a gift for Damian, and a card for you.” She gently placed the small box— which Bruce couldn’t help but wonder if she’d wrapped herself— and the envelope on his desk, then fell silent.

Bruce stared apprehensively at the ‘gifts’ for a moment, before fixing Talia with a hard stare. “You do know I’ll have to scan both of these before Damian sees them— either of them. If I decide it’s safe for him to,” he said neutrally. Talia nodded, and her eyes went warm, and the curve of her mouth was inviting and soft. Bruce’s heart lurched, as he knew the danger present. But he knew better now. He knew that, to the moth, the flame _always_ , _always_ , _always_ looked inviting.

“I do. But, even if it does not reassure you, beloved, I will remind you that I have no reason to wish ill upon you, or our son.”

Bruce laughed. He couldn’t help it. _That was just_ — “Rich. Coming from you. I believe you tried to murder me not even two years ago. And as for Damian—” Bruce sucked in a breath, thinking of all his boy’s scars. The nightmares. The carefully-unsaid things he left out in stories of his past among the League of Shadows, of the haunted look he sometimes got in his too-large, green eyes. “You have done more than enough harm, Talia.”

She sighed, as if disappointed, and nothing more. Bruce’s fists clenched, and his stomach gave an ugly churn. _She was so like Ra’s, and he’d been blind. So completely, foolishly, blind._ “I see. Well then, if that is what you still believe, Bruce, my beloved, then it is time for me to make my exit.”

“I’ll see you out,” Bruce said stiffly. Talia hummed, turning to make for the door.

■ ¤ ■ ¤ ■ ¤ ■

Damian had approximately five seconds to get away from the door and hide himself, after he heard Father’s suddenly too-loud, too-close voice say he’d see Mother out. He ended up leaping behind an umbrella stand— brought in for the winter, as it most certainly was needed in Gotham’s cruel combination of rainy falls and harsh, snowy winters. Despite his poor hideout, neither Father nor Mother seemed to notice Damian’s presence. _Very well_. With a slight sigh, he waited the proper amount of time before peeling away from the shadows and following them.

By this time, Pennyworth had started the long and arduous process of kicking people out of the manor. Oh, he’d done it very _politely_ , of course, but Pennyworth had a way about him that often led to people doing what he wanted. There was just _something_ about the man. Anyway, Damian’s job was both easier than earlier, and more difficult. He had fewer drunken ingrates to maneuver around, but also less cover, should Father or Mother hear him, or merely choose to look back. However, luck seemed to be on his side tonight, as neither adult noticed him during the entire trip from Father’s office to the manor’s front door. Damian stopped, and crouched behind a potted plant.

■ ¤ ■ ¤ ■ ¤ ■

They stopped in the main hall, just inside the overlarge doors. Bruce almost wished he’d taken Alfred’s small talk lessons more seriously, over the years. He would have killed to have the skill to politely and painlessly usher Talia out the door before she had the opportunity to twist the experience into the way _she_ wanted it to be. Somehow, though, Bruce didn’t doubt that she would be immune to even the most British of small talk. A shame.

Talia seemed to sense his impatience, and ire. She sighed, and allowed a look of dissatisfaction to slither across her face. Bruce tried to harden his heart, and look as impassive as he could. But, as usual, the woman in front of him spurned his efforts, and mocked his emotions. Carefully— he would have said ‘cautiously’ if it were anyone else— Talia slid a hand up his chest and flicked the white cotton ball at the end of Bruce’s Santa hat. Bruce stilled, feeling his pulse tick up a notch. _Idiot_.

“I did not come here to threaten,” Talia said softly, still fiddling with Bruce’s dumb hat, “I wish you to know that, Bruce.”

“Hmm,” Bruce replied. He caught her hand, as it moved to perhaps brush through his hair, or make some other gesture that would later prick his heart like a thousand pins. Talia made no move to free herself, so Bruce, feeling as if he were being burned, kept contact, and led her to the door. He’d just gotten it open when Talia gently freed herself. They stood like that for a bit, Bruce half-crowding, Talia half-leaving.

Finally, before he could _do_ anything, she had leaned forward and crushed their lips together. Then, before Bruce could do anything else but blink in surprise, Talia had pulled away, and was out the door. As he stared, bemusedly, after her retreating form, the night air carried her departing words back to him, “I did notice the mistletoe, beloved. Tell my son his mother sends Yuletide greetings.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve had this plot rattling around in my head for the past few days! I just pictured Bruce in a Santa suit, and Damian seeing his parents kiss. 
> 
> It’ll be part of a larger, holiday-song-themed series, so stay tuned (pun intended) for more after this!


End file.
